


Sherlock Needs Love

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cameos, Fluff, John Is So Done, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Matchmaking, Mycroft is a Softie, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After Sherrinford, Sherlock seems to feel very low. John is worried and he decides the only way to help him is to find a love interest for him.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter will be John's POV. For a change, this fic is very friendly to John. I'm not sure if I will write a third chapter.

### The Plan

“Everything all right?” John asked casually while hanging up his jacket.

“Of course. What shouldn’t be?” Sherlock looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Nothing. Tea?”

“You know this question is redundant. Have I ever said ‘no’ to tea?” Sherlock sounded a tad impatient, his eyes were narrowed. A typical reaction. Nothing to worry about. Not about this, that is.

“Nah,” John said calmly. “I’ll make some.” Sherlock grumbled something and stalked into the living room and the doctor walked over to the kitchen.

While he was shovelling tea into the pot and putting on the kettle, he thought about the past hour. A case for Inspector Dimmock, who had looked rather weary thanks to the fact that his wife had just given birth to twins. The murder case had not been particularly interesting but Sherlock had immediately agreed to taking care of it. Anderson, back in the forensics team, had been there, blubbering nonsense non-stop, along with Donovan, who’d had an unmissable hickey under her ear.

Sherlock had not said one word about either. No teasing Anderson with being stupid. No remarks about their not-so-secret affair, no complaining about the waste of his time. He had solved the case within five minutes and then he had been standing around, his look going into nothingness until John had suggested taking a cab home.

And he had been like this ever since Sherrinford. Apart from visiting his sister a few times until he’d had to realise his efforts were coming to nothing (and John had not understood why he had bothered with this monster in the first place, why he felt responsible for her after all she had done), he had been spending most of the days brooding in his armchair, which had miraculously survived the explosion of 221B, sometimes for five hours. John had gone out to his shift or doing shopping or to the playground with Rosie, and when he had come back, Sherlock had not changed his position one inch. Perhaps he hadn’t even blinked.

Of course John had asked him before what was on his mind but Sherlock had never given him any insightful answer. In fact he had either not replied at all, pretended nothing was up like he’d had just now, or grumbled something mostly incoherently, usually including complaining about people’s stupidity, the weather or the lack of biscuits, and he had avoided his look.

John had pondered about the reason for him closing up like this. The first one that came to mind was his inexcusable violence against his friend. Sherlock had forgiven him but John knew he would never fully forgive himself. He had not been himself ever since that godforsaken day when Sherlock had allegedly died, and on that day with Smith, all his pain and frustration had led to this explosion of violence. Their friendship, already troubled from all that had happened since Sherlock had come back into his life, had suffered cracks that no apology (and there had been plenty) could patch completely so it would probably never be like it once had been.

Nevertheless – Sherlock had asked him to move into 221B again as soon as the flat was habitable again, and he had gladly accepted. When Rosie got older, this arrangement would have to be changed, and John did hope one day he would find someone he could love again and have a family with. In any way Sherlock might not want to talk about how he was feeling because he didn’t trust him anymore, and that stung, even more so because he knew he deserved it.

The second possible reason was that Sherlock didn’t know himself what was plaguing him and he didn’t want to admit it. He was very smart and all but he was not that connected to his own feelings. He could deduce the living hell out of everybody but doing it with himself was probably a tad different.

Or perhaps it was something that he simply didn’t want John to know. Or anyone else. John had carefully asked Mrs Hudson if Sherlock had confided in her but she had shaken her head. _“He looks so serious and sad_ _all the time_ _. I wish he would tell me.”_

John wished so, too. He observed Sherlock and eventually, he came to a conclusion: Sherlock was lonely. He had opened his heart to some extent over the past years, and it had all gone pretty wrong. Mary, whom he had liked a lot, had died, and he was still blaming himself, even though John didn’t do that anymore. Molly, whom he genuinely adored, only not in the way Molly wanted it, was keeping her distance after this unlucky ‘I love you’ incident even though John had explained to her why Sherlock had called her to make her say it. Greg was great as always but he had a new woman in his life, was busy with his job and they hardly saw him apart from the cases they solved for him.

And didn’t they say it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? In some painful nights, when John missed Mary exceptionally much, he questioned this piece of wisdom. But then – he had Rosie whom he loved more than anything and of course she wouldn’t have even existed without this lost love.

Sherlock had never loved anyone. John had soon realised he had lied when he had said he answered Irene. He had only said it to make him feel better about texting with Eurus in disguise after telling him earlier that he never answered her. And even if he did – she didn’t mean anything to him. She had been a puzzle, an exciting, very foreign and fascinating one, but nothing more. He clearly never met her.

But Sherlock needed someone, if he understood this or not. He was not that cold-hearted sociopath he liked to see himself as. He was able to develop deep feelings for someone, and John only had to see him interact with Rosie to be sure about this.

John hoped to find love again and he was determined to make Sherlock meet that one person, man or woman, that he could love, too, as John didn't want to leave him behind like this, lonely and suffering. But he would not meet this person by sitting around, sulking in his armchair, would he? Well, he could if this person came along of course. But who ever did come along? And was available? Just clients, in the end, and Sherlock didn't even look at them, just focusing on their problems. So Sherlock had to go out with him, if he wanted this or not. Of course he would have to be left in the dark about John’s plans, otherwise he would be seriously appalled and would never leave the flat again… Sherlock Holmes didn’t need a lover! He was alone and alone protected him etcetera, etcetera.

Well, John wouldn’t have it anymore. He would make sure Sherlock found someone to love; someone who deserved his complicated, difficult, special friend. It wouldn’t be easy but where there’s a will there’s a way as they said.

### The Pub

“I can’t believe I let you lure me here.” Sherlock shook his head. “You said there was a possibility for a case!” He looked around in disgust.

“There is. There always is,” smirked John, and he wasn’t surprised when Sherlock snorted. When his friend made an attempt at turning on his heel and leave, he held him back by grabbing his arm. “Oh, please, humour me. Just one pint, eh?” The pub wasn’t that bad. John had been here before, with Greg. They had good beer and even decent food, and the people were not exactly posh but not too nasty, either; at least there hadn’t been any drunken riots when John had been present. The interior was pretty new and the tables were not overly sticky. There were worse places to go for sure.

Not for Sherlock, obviously.

“Why can’t you come here with some of your other friends?” Sherlock sat down at the table John had guided him to, not even bothering to take off his coat.

The cool air had brought some colour to his cheeks and his hair had been tousled by the strong wind. He looked very good, John had to say, and if there was someone in this pub for him, they would certainly be stunned by his looks. Not so much by his mood though...

John sighed. “Nobody has time these days. Mike is in a program in Bart’s, teaching in the evening, and Greg has a new girlfriend.” He almost expected Sherlock to ask ‘Who?’ but he did obviously remember the DI’s name now, which was good progress for him. “And Anderson, well, he is not that great company… Always bitches about his wife and how mean Donovan is.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe he bothers with her if he already has such a harpy at home...”

“You never thought about this?” It was a risk to ask so openly but this opportunity was too good to miss.

“About what? Dating Donovan? Are you mad?” Sherlock looked at him as if he was about to send him to a certain place to get help. At least his clear, bright eyes did have some life in them now.

“Nah, not Donovan. There must be some nicer women out there. I mean, I know you’re not interested in Molly...” He let it sound like a half-question, for the very slight possibility that Sherlock was only shy about wanting her...

It only brought him another eye-roll. “How did you deduce that? And I told you – women are not my area.”

Now that was a distinct statement. John shivered at the thought of going to a _gay_ pub next time (not that he had problems with gays but if someone took a picture of them there and posted it, he could imagine the headlines...) but he was determined to match Sherlock up with some decent, smart, friendly guy then. Someone Sherlock would accept. Who could live up to his genius and would not be repulsed by his snarkiness. A very easy task for sure… But John wouldn’t give up before he had even really started!

“Sure, you said so,” he answered Sherlock. “Was never certain. There was The Woman after all.”

Sherlock sighed. “I wasn’t interested in her like this.” He narrowed his eyes and John feared the next words that came out of his mouth would be asking if John had brought him her for meeting someone, which would have been the end of his brave plan, when there was a scream at a nearby table.

“Colin?! What’s wrong? Help! We need a doctor!” A young woman with long, black hair was shaking a man’s shoulder. He had just collapsed onto his plate.

The two Baker Street Boys shared a look and then they hurried to get up and help.

*****

“I have to say your idea to go to this pub wasn’t that bad after all.” Sherlock sounded more cheerful than John had heard him for ages.

He mumbled an agreement. Yes, it had been successful in some regards. Sherlock had solved a case – the man named Colin had been poisoned, and it had happened two hours before he had come to the pub and the unusual substance had led directly to his murderer. There had been nothing John could have done to help him, unfortunately. But very unexpectedly, he had met a very nice woman in this situation – the best friend of late Colin and his wife. While Sherlock had solved the case (DI Dimmock had come to the pub with his team), John had comforted the wife, Melinda, together with her attractive friend Susan, a brunette that worked as an IT consultant. She was shorter than John, had sweet freckles and auburn hair, and she had not exactly given him her number but she had mentioned the address of her office before she had accompanied her friend to the Yard, and despite the awful situation, John had sensed that she would like to see him again.

Of course the point had been to find someone for _Sherlock_ but it had only been the first try after all. He would not give up but he had to be a bit more cunning as Sherlock had already been close to figuring out what this little excursion had been about. Now he was on his post-case high and had already forgotten about his suspicion.

But John knew his mood wouldn’t stay like this. Sherlock needed more than the thrill of the chase and John would not stop until he had found it. He would wait a couple of days until his next attempt though, and he had to be more subtle. Fooling Sherlock was not the easiest thing to do and there was a high possibility that Sherlock would figure it out and get very mad at him but until this happened, he would try his best to complete his task.

But now he would fetch his daughter from Mrs Hudson and call it a night.

### The Art Gallery

“Champagne, _Messieurs_?” A waiter, looking like the cliché of a waiter, dressed in a black suit and a white shirt, his hair so sticky from styling products that he probably needed a full bottle of shampoo to get it out again, offered them a plate.

Sherlock shrugged and took a glass, and so did John, thanking the man with a smile, and then another waiter hurried to provide them with tiny sandwiches with graved salmon.

“Why are all these penguins here? I thought this is about looking at these ghastly pictures?”

John sighed. “Don't pretend you've never been to an exhibition. You solved a pretty famous case in one.”

“Yes, but what are we doing here, John? This isn't art. It's… Rosie could paint such pictures!”

John chuckled. “Don't let the artist hear that. And I told you that Harry got the invitations from a friend and she and Yuko couldn't come.” It wasn't true of course. His sister had come along while Sherlock had been in Bart's a few days ago and told him, excitedly, about this event, and he had begged her to give him the tickets. He owed her something for giving in after some reluctance.

The artist was being highly praised by the critics and the media, and while he was a seventy-two year-old man that bore a striking resemblance to Father Christmas, some of the other visitors were a sight to behold. Of course there were some crazy-looking people but many of the men were highly attractive – and gay. Most of them were there with their partners though which wasn't very promising.

Sherlock sighed and gobbled down his sandwich. “It's boring.”

He wasn't even looking at anyone, John had to admit. And the paintings he did look at were not very remarkable; he had to admit that as well. Seems they were wasting their time here. At least the champagne was good…

“Excuse me – are you Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock sighed but he turned around to the soft-spoken man, and so did John – and he almost choked on his sandwich.

“I am,” Sherlock said haughtily. “And so is he.”

“My God,” John brought out. “Mr Hiddleston. I'm such a fan of your work!”

The slim, tall man with the unruly reddish-brown curls and the full beard smiled. “Oh, what a nice thing to say, Doctor Watson. I can only say the same. What you do for our country is amazing. I'm merely a modest actor.” He was wearing a slim grey suit and a red tie – all perfect British elegance.

“Never saw you in anything,” Sherlock said, sounding not in the least impressed.

John couldn’t help but stare at the man, who didn’t seem to be offended at all by Sherlock's rather contemptuous statement. He was even taller than he looked in his films, and his eyes, and his cheekbones… He wasn't married, John recalled. Hadn't there been an unlucky affair with some country singer? And weren't there rumours about this affair having been staged to hide his true sexuality? He had no idea if there was any truth in this. Having a sister who loved women and having met many homosexual men and women through her, he was sometimes very sure if someone was gay but he knew that one could be also totally wrong about that, and he was absolutely not sure about this man. John had come here with Sherlock as it was to be expected that quite a few of the people who would attend this event would be gay, and it was hard to miss as they expressed it very openly but of course this man, this famous actor who protected his privacy very well (which made his public affair with this young woman a tad suspicious indeed) would certainly not behave like this.

“My name is Tom Hiddleston. It's such an honour to meet you, Mr Holmes.” Tom offered his hand to Sherlock with a genuine smile, and Sherlock took it.

“I'm Sherlock.”

Oh… Was there a glimmer of interest in Sherlock's eyes? It was hard to say as John was standing at his side.

Tom's eyes were definitely sparkling though, and how he was smiling at Sherlock, telling him to call him by his first name as well…

If they exchanged numbers, perhaps…

“ _Oh my God! The Blue House! It's gone!”_

Sherlock whirled around at the sound of the hysteric male voice. “Oh! A stolen painting! Come on, John!” And with this he was racing off.

John sighed and followed him, mumbling an excuse to the famous Mr Hiddleston.

*****

“Damn, that was exciting!”

John had to agree. It had been. And very lucrative. The gallerist had given them a cheque about five thousand pounds for bringing the painting back so quickly and without a scratch.

“It was great!” Sherlock seemed to be decidedly happy.

It wouldn’t last though. After the case in the pub his euphoria had lasted about an hour – then he had been sitting in his chair again, pensive and quiet. And it had been like this for the next few days. This was not feeling bored. It was a melancholy that reached much deeper. He was pondering about something that deeply troubled him, like a loss he couldn't deal with. It had nothing to do with them or with Eurus, John was sure. But with whom it had anything to do, he didn’t know.

Had there really been some kind of tension between him and the Marvel actor or had that only been wishful thinking? Of course there had been no opportunity for them to exchange phone numbers or email addresses.

“He was nice – Tom Hiddleston,” he remarked without much hope.

And he was not surprised at all when Sherlock turned to him and gave him questioning look. “Who?”

“Never mind…” He would not give up. Not so soon. There had to be this special someone for Sherlock, somewhere.

And tomorrow he would meet Sue again, and he was looking forward to it a lot. He had gone to her office two days after the pub visit, and she had been very happy to see him, and now he did have her number and he was sure they would have a wonderful time together.

And Sherlock would spend the evening in his chair again, thinking about what- or whoever, and John didn’t like it at all.

### The Theatre

“What a wonderful coincidence to have had you here when it mattered the most,” the tall, balding man said with tears in his eyes. His arms were tightly wrapped around a much shorter man, who was actually sobbing. “If anything had happened to my Ian...” He kissed the younger man with the greying hair and the boyish features on the forehead. Both were still wearing their costumes and they looked outrageously cute together.

Sherlock shook his head. “The murderer wouldn’t have targeted him, Mr…?”

“Gatiss. Mark Gatiss.”

“Whatever. The killer, Mr Lundy, just exchanged the bullets so the other actor would die for real.” Sherlock turned to John. “You are really my conductor of light, John. My conductor of crime, more precisely!” He beamed at him and then turned to talk to Lestrade again.

John was done now. He would forget about this insane plan. Conductor of crime, my arse! He had wanted to be a conductor of _love_ for Sherlock and all it had led to was one case after the other…

Over the past weeks, he had basically dragged Sherlock to every place where sophisticated gay men were likely to be met. Sherlock had not even so much as glanced at any of them. He had been annoyed until the inevitable murder/robbery/whatever crime took place, and then he had been his usual excited ‘the game is on’ self until he had dropped into his armchair again, going on brooding.

This had been the last try: a play about a bunch of gay men with one of them getting allegedly shot by his jealous lover in the last act. Only that he had really been shot… John had bought the tickets and then sent them to Baker Street via mail, claiming they were coming from a grateful gay client Sherlock had indeed helped the week before. The man had been young, smart, friendly and simply boyfriend material of the finest sort. Sherlock had not paid any attention to his assets. When John had asked him casually afterwards, he had at least admitted that the man had been attractive. So he wasn’t blind towards other men’s looks. He just didn’t care about them.

During the break, they had been literally surrounded by a hundred more or less attractive homosexual men and Sherlock had just looked through them. But there had been something in his eyes that had told John that he was thinking of someone. He was pretty sure Sherlock was not a full-on asexual person. He knew his friend indulged in pleasuring himself from time to time and when he once had used Sherlock's laptop, he might have glanced at the browser history and found a gay porn site among the previously visited websites. And he could just feel that there was someone Sherlock wanted. And he obviously couldn’t have him and this was what made him feel so low.

Distracting him with other men seemed to be a pointless task. He had even talked to Lestrade about it and the DI had snorted into his beer. _‘Matching our Sherlock up with someone? You really think that could work?’_

Well, so far it had not, and he had run out of ideas with whom he could made another try.

It had been embarrassing enough to get Sherlock to come with him tonight.

‘ _You want to go to a gay play with me?’_ Sherlock had asked, looking highly suspicious.

‘ _It would be a shame to not use the tickets,’_ John had said, feigning indifference.

“ _You could give them to your sister.”_

“ _Well, it’s about gay_ men _.”_

“ _Which_ you _are not...”_

“ _No. But the reviews are very good. It’s just ninety minutes. I’m sure it won’t turn me gay,”_ John had joked, making clear that he wasn’t suddenly interested in a relationship with Sherlock as he hoped.

The play had been funny and interesting for sure and Sherlock had seemed to enjoy it to some extent. But then he had been way more interested by the unexpected murder case than any of the men he had seen during the break – or on the stage. John was sure most of those handsome actors would have given their right arm for a date with his striking friend, and of course he had seen many appreciate glances at him when they had been moving through the crowd after the first part. But Sherlock had not cared, had not even noticed it, and so John had to admit his plan had failed. Whoever it was that was on Sherlock's mind all the time, he was occupying it completely despite being absent. Or perhaps it was something completely different that made Sherlock struggle so much. John didn’t ask him anymore. It was clear that Sherlock wasn’t willing to tell him. But if he decided to do it, John would be there for him and support him, whatever this was about.

*****

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock had stopped abruptly on their way from the cab to the door. And then John saw the door knocker. “Oh, Mycroft is here.” _Mycroft_... Had Sherlock's brother really not shown up a single time since this nasty day in Sherrinford? Surely the brothers had been in contact, at least for organising Sherlock's rather pointless trips to the prison. But otherwise? Not once had Mycroft shown up with a case. Sherlock had not complained about his brother texting him, and neither had Mycroft texted John as Sherlock wasn’t answering. John wouldn’t have said he had almost forgotten about the man’s existence but it was not that far from the truth, either.

And now he was here.

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly. “Mycroft.” He started walking again and John followed him, wondering about this uncharacteristic reaction.

Later he thought he should have started to understand at this point already. But really – who could have expected this...

*****

When they burst into the living room, Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's armchair, his inevitable umbrella leaning against the table. He had not made light, and when John did, he slowly got up.

“Good evening, Sherlock, Doctor Watson. Apologies for the late visit.” Did he sound… insecure? Mycroft? “It is quite an urgent case and I would appreciate it a lot if you could take care of it.”

John couldn’t remember having Mycroft Holmes asking for their assistance in such meek words before. Still he was sure Sherlock would tell him to get out.

Instead Sherlock, shrugging off his coat, nodded. “Sure. What is it about?” His voice sounded serious; all excitement about the murder case he had just solved was gone.

And he did actually listen to his brother, who had moved over to the client’s chair, telling them about a rather confusing (well, for John) matter concerning an agent, a precious pair of earrings, Portugal and a woman with long hair.

Sherlock made agreeing or dismissive noises from time to time, and when Mycroft was finished, he reached out for the folder. “Tomorrow evening we will have a solution,” he promised.

“Thank you, brother, doctor. You will be generously rewarded for your time and effort.” An almost shy smile was pulling at his lips.

Sherlock nodded, fumbling with his collar.

John looked from one brother to the other. Several times. “Want a drink?” he eventually offered to the string puller.

Mycroft got up at once, grabbing his umbrella in one fluent movement. “Thank you very much, but I must leave. Again, thank you for…” He broke off, looking uncharacteristically unsure, and then he nodded and left.

John watched him stalk out and then he looked at Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair like he always did. This time he wasn’t staring into nothingness though. He was looking at the door through which his brother had disappeared.

The epiphany was almost strong enough to knock John out of his shoes. But before he could say anything – and what the hell should this have been at all? – Sherlock got up.

“Let’s go, John. We have work to do.”

Yes. And John knew the case was the smallest part of it. At least he had finally found an answer to a question that was far more important to him. And the brothers Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

“Any plans for tonight?” John closed his hideous jacket.

Sherlock looked up. “No. You’re going to meet, um...”

“...Sue, yes. We’re going to see a film. Rosie is with Molly.”

“Hm.” Saturday night. Couples went out on dates. How dull...

“Well, I hope you...” John stopped when a shrill scream echoed through the house. “Mrs Hudson!”

Sherlock was on his feet already, leading the way downstairs where the screeching hadn’t stopped. “What is it?” he asked when Mrs Hudson tumbled out of her flat. Was the house burning? Robbers? A corpse, having magically appeared in the living room? God, he needed a case so badly...

“There’s a mouse!” a dishevelled-looking old lady panted. Her apron was crumpled and her face showed pure horror.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You are screaming the house down for a bloody little mouse?” He had thought the whole ‘women being afraid of harmless mice’ thing was a myth. But what did he know about women anyway? They were a mystery to him and not one he was keen on solving.

“It’s behind the oven! You must get it out!”

John chuckled behind him. “Damn, and I’ll miss the show.”

“You must help him!” demanded their landlady. Her bottom lip was trembling.

“I can very well manage one little rodent,” Sherlock assured her, gestured John to leave for his date, dull or not, and entered the flat, heading for the kitchen. He was welcomed by the rather loud sound of the radio. “Can you turn that off, please? I can’t hear where it is.”

Mrs Hudson ignored his plea, shivering in fear of a tiny animal that was certainly a lot more scared than her, and he huffed and moved over to the radio to switch the annoying music off himself when Mrs Hudson screamed again. “There! I saw it! Right behind that cupboard!”

Sherlock sighed and got down on his knees to look behind the piece of furniture in question. He didn’t see anything but darkness. “I’ll need a torch.”

“Oh, I’ll get it.”

“What was that?” Sherlock perked up his ears.

Mrs Hudson was noisily rummaging in a drawer. “I heard nothing. Here.”

Sherlock took the small, red torch and a moment later he shook his head. “There is nothing but dust. And I might have seen one or two spiders.” He sighed when Mrs Hudson screeched again at this. “Calm down, they are unlikely to come up from there if we leave them alone.” He got up. And turned his head again. “There is somebody upstairs.”

“There! The mouse!” Mrs Hudson pointed at the opposite wall and Sherlock moved quickly – to find nothing again.

“I don’t see it.” Was it even there? Or had she had some sherry for dinner and was imagining things?

He finally turned the radio off and listened into the silence of the house. He heard nothing but the steady humming of the fridge. Was imagining things infectious? “Let me know when you see it again.”

“Thank you, dear. It must have run out.”

“Probably. I’ll be upstairs then.” He nodded at her and left her flat. And stopped at the first step. He didn’t hear anything but he could smell… lasagne? Angelo’s famous lasagne? With long steps he climbed the stairs and stopped dead when he saw the living room table, laid out for two, two boxes with food next to the plates.

What was going on here? John was gone; he had a date so he would hardly do this for the two of them. He wouldn’t anyway. The table looked as if it was meant for… well, a date.

And he recalled all the events of the past weeks. John dragging him to one silly place after the other. He had suspected that John was determined to find a love interest for him, but the sheer thought was so ridiculous that he had never spoken it out. And he had let himself be fooled by tickets that allegedly came from other people, which he was now sure had not been the case. It had all been John, God knew why. He had really been slipping… But now his friend had gone a step further. He had obviously invited someone for dinner. And Mrs Hudson with her charade… Of course there hadn’t been a mouse to begin with. He’d just had to be distracted so the food could be brought and the table arranged. For whom? This was the million pounds question.

And then he heard fast steps on the stairs and knew it would be answered very soon.

He turned – and looked into two well-known pale-blue eyes.

“Good evening. Thank you for the invitation,” Mycroft said, sounding as if he was wondering why Sherlock had bothered doing that. Wondering massively, in fact.

And Sherlock recalled that he had left his phone on the table when he had hurried down to help Mrs Hudson. How had John done this? When? And… why? He couldn’t _know_ …

But Mycroft… He had not wasted any time with following the invitation. His suit told Sherlock he was coming from the office. On a Saturday evening…

“Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded insecure, and probably he suspected that something was fishy about this invitation.

“Oh. Sorry. Give me your coat. And do sit down.” There was a bottle of wine, too. And a candle, not lit yet. The message was clear. And frightening… And if John knew it (and he could only do so due to having paid very close attention to Sherlock's behaviour when Mycroft had come over the other day) so did Mrs Hudson, why else would she have played this game? Perhaps John had just told her that he had failed at getting a lover for Sherlock so he wanted to make him get along better with his brother at least. And Sherlock would have believed that this was the case if the table hadn’t simply screamed ‘date’.

He had no idea how to handle this, and he saw Mycroft glancing at the table and swallowing. But his brother didn’t look appalled. He looked scared. And if Sherlock wasn’t deducing him completely wrongly, he also looked hopeful.

A long time ago Sherlock had called John an idiot for not being as smart as him and Mycroft. Now he wondered who the real idiots were…

In any way this was a chance he would only get once. The only chance to… tell his brother how much he loved him? Seriously? It was madness. Doomed to end in a catastrophe. At least that’s what he had thought. All this long time.

“I’ll get the matches,” he said quietly. “Can you take care of the wine?” The corkscrew was lying next to the bottle.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, and he smiled shyly at him.

Sherlock stared into his eyes – and then he smiled back in the same way.

*****

Sherlock had not really invited him here, so much was sure. He had tried to hide it, but he had not expected Mycroft to show up. And he hadn’t laid the table either.

Who else? Well, who else but Doctor Watson? Who if not he could get hold of Sherlock's phone to send this text that had come as such a surprise that he had almost keeled over at his desk. But why the hell had he done it? Had he changed his opinion about Mycroft because of the day in Sherrinford?

It hadn't been strictly necessary to spend the complete Saturday afternoon in his Diogenes office. But ever since the Eurus-debacle, he had worked even harder to make up for his failures. Constantly checked on his sister's containment.

How close it had been… What if Eurus hadn't interrupted Sherlock's insane countdown? What if he had died because Mycroft had failed so thoroughly in securing the smartest and most dangerous woman in the country?

When Moriarty had started meddling in Sherlock's life, Mycroft had already felt horrible. He had been so close to telling Sherlock about their sister at this point but stupidly, he had been sure the meeting of the two lunatics wouldn’t have any direr consequences than Sherlock having to fake his death and going undercover. As if this hadn't been bad enough. It had cost him two years of his life, had endangered him every single day during this period and it had brought a deep rift into his friendship with John Watson. The violence the doctor had unleashed on his brother after his wife's death was more or less yet another consequence of this. Would he have ever got together with this horrible woman if Sherlock hadn't left? The woman that had almost killed his brother just to die for him, making his life even more miserable. It was not easy to not blame it all on himself.

Sherlock and John had reconciled but Mycroft was sure their friendship would never be the same again. How could it after all that had happened? They seemed to have forgiven each other. Mycroft did resent John for hurting and injuring his little brother and putting him into danger like this, but in the end he had gone and saved him, and it was not Mycroft's place to avenge Sherlock if his baby brother thought the doctor deserved a second chance.

Mycroft had stayed away from his brother after this terrible day in the prison. He had felt even more ashamed when Sherlock had tried to placate their parents in their rightful wrath at him. He would never admit it to Sherlock but the fact that his brother had tried to bond with their sister afterwards had hurt him deeply. He could understand it though. His brother, the self-proclaimed ‘high-functioning sociopath’, did care about people. All of them – the faithful Miss Hooper, the father-figure Greg Lestrade, the maternal Mrs Hudson and of course, more about anyone else, his in equal measures protective and destructive Doctor Watson. He would have to feel responsible for his baby sister as well, and Mycroft had no idea what had happened before Sherlock had saved John from drowning in the well Victor Trevor had lost his life in all those years ago. Apparently he had made another silly vow. Had promised her to look after her.

It had been a relief when Sherlock had stopped going to Sherrinford. Less because of his own hurt feelings but because he had feared for Sherlock's safety. Who knew if she couldn’t find ways to reprogram him, despite all the surveillance? She hadn't though and Sherlock had returned to normal – living with John Watson, plus the man's child, solving cases. That was about it, or so it had seemed until a few weeks ago. Lately the reports had shown that they had gone out quite a lot. Especially to gay events… Mycroft had expected the worst – the two men becoming lovers – but then John had been seen frequently with an attractive young woman so obviously he and Sherlock had not ended up being the couple, the family that Mycroft had feared they would become the very first day when John had appeared in Sherlock's life.

John had never liked him. He had mocked him and been awful to him. Just like Sherlock, most of the time… In fact Sherlock had been way nicer to him when they were alone, almost as if he made those nasty jabs to please and impress John. He had stopped doing so when they had planned his fake death, and he had not started again after his return. Things had been better between them. And then Mycroft had almost killed him by bringing him to the forsaken prison to prove that Eurus couldn’t have left it to pretend to be Smith's daughter or John's therapist and whatnot. And how close it had been for at least one of them to never return.

Feeling deeply troubled and ashamed, he had decided to stay away. Sherlock didn’t need him. It was better this way.

He had missed him. Terribly. And that he never saw him anymore didn’t mean he hadn’t been thinking about him. He had. All the time. Like he had always done. Sherlock was the sun around which is sheer existence was circling. From the day he'd been born, Sherlock had been his everything. And for a short, beautiful while, Sherlock had loved him, too. How he had looked at his older brother, full of admiration, eager to learn whatever Mycroft would teach him. Even when he had been friends with Victor, he had still spent a lot of time with him, cuddled up against him in the evenings. But when Eurus had let Victor disappear, burnt down the house and been sent away and Sherlock had chosen to forget about them, he had forgotten about this closeness in the go. Time and natural developments had deepened their estrangement until nothing had been left but resentments and distance until the Moriarty case had melted this ice quite a bit. And it had been so hard to let him go to dismantling the consulting criminal's network. As if it hadn't been hard enough to work so closely with the man he had fallen in love with when he had been a sulking, nineteen-years old man with a strong favour for drugs and rebellion, showing his contempt for Mycroft whenever they had met.

Perhaps he was a masochist. Who fell in love with someone who hated him? But there was so much to love about Sherlock. The sweet, wonderful boy he had once been was still somewhere inside him. He was brilliant and fascinating, not to mention beautiful and physically desirable to an extent that had left Mycroft his helpless admirer. A very secret admirer… He hadn't even wanted to imagine what would happen if Sherlock found out about his misguided feelings.

He had shut them away of course. Had played the role of the exasperated older brother to perfection. And Sherlock had fallen for it and their relationship had been troubled to say the least throughout all of Sherlock's younger years. And Mycroft was sure Sherlock had not sensed his feelings when they had been preparing The Fall.

But he had feared he had sensed them in Sherrinford, which was just one more reason to keep away from him. How open had Mycroft shown his love for him when he had offered him to shoot him. Convinced that these were his last moments on earth, he had not been able to keep his shields up anymore. And there had been a brief moment when he had almost assumed that Sherlock… of course not returned his feelings in the same way but did feel more for him than he had ever shown.

And then he had sent Greg Lestrade to check on him and Mycroft had known he had just imagined it. It had hurt. Knowing Sherlock was bonding with their sister had hurt, and watching them play together had made him feel… lonely. He had been with their parents, and Mummy had made clear she had forgiven him for lying about Eurus, and that had been very nice, and he had received a pat on the back from Father, too. But he had still been feeling lonely.

What had happened with Sherlock since then? Why had he given up visiting Eurus? Why had he attended all these events with the doctor? In the end Mycroft had gone to him. With a case that was weird enough to be interesting for his brother. Still he had expected the usual rejection – followed by him solving the case anyway, like all the times before… But Sherlock had been rather… kind? And this invitation… Mycroft had been up in a second, leaving the report he had been reading unfinished, to hurry to Baker Street as fast as he could. To find out now that Sherlock hadn’t actually invited him. But he had not said anything. He had played along so he didn’t mind having dinner with him. Wasn’t this a milestone already? But what had led to this – the invitation and Sherlock’s reaction?

While they were eating, in silence, in the light of the candle between them, a light that made Sherlock's angular features look even more striking and let his eyes shine in ways that made Mycroft's heart clench, he came to the conclusion that John had obviously tried to set Sherlock up with someone. What a horrible thought. Because in the end John had lured him, Mycroft, into meeting up with Sherlock. Was he mad? Had he given up finding an adequate partner for Sherlock (as he clearly didn’t have one now) because they were all too dumb and dull for him so the only one that seemed to be left was his brother? Or had he, God forbid, seen Mycroft's feelings for Sherlock when had been in Baker Street? How could that be? And how could he think Sherlock would want to spend time with him under these circumstances? Was it just another cruel prank at his expense? It wouldn’t have been the first one… He would not forget the clown and the midget so soon…

He had eaten up his very tasty lasagne and he realised only when he drank from the wine that he had burnt his mouth quite thoroughly on it.

And he had to say something! Anything! He couldn’t sit here and say nothing any longer! “The dinner… was excellent.”

Sherlock nodded. “I'm glad you enjoyed it. It's my favourite dish from Angelo's.”

“And rightly so.” Mycroft tried to smile but it had to look like a grimace. He had to get out of here. Sherlock had solved his case very willingly a couple of days ago. He had called him to let him know about his conclusions. It had been nice. Perhaps they could continue to be like this with each other. He would find interesting work for Sherlock and they could have dinner or lunch every few weeks or months and otherwise they…

“I love you, Mycroft.”

Time stood still. His hand, holding his glass, sank down onto the table, and he vaguely registered that Sherlock caught the glass before it could spill red wine onto the white table cloth.

He must have misheard. Sherlock had not said this.

“John knows it. He saw it when you were here. He was worried about me because I had been… pretty down lately. I thought… I had lost you completely.” Sherlock drank from his own whine, and was his hand shivering?

Mycroft couldn’t have got out a word if anyone had put a gun to his head. Again. He was gaping at Sherlock like the stupidest goldfish that had ever walked the earth. And goldfish didn’t actually walk, did they, and why was he pondering about goldfish now?!

“You never called, never came over. I thought… First I thought you had seen my feelings for you. Then I thought you just gave up on…”

“…your feelings for me,” Mycroft interrupted him, hardly recognising his own voice.

Sherlock nodded. “I can't even say when they started but it was a long time ago. Anyway. I thought, in Sherrinford, that you might feel the same way. At first it was such a scary thought. After all this time… all this pointless sentiment. I didn’t know how to deal with it. To make sure you're okay I sent Lestrade to you. At this point… I couldn’t have talked to you. But I planned to do it. But then you threw me out of your office along with our parents after we had told them about her. I mean… you made clear you had more important things to do. You closed up when we visited Eurus. You never came along. I thought I had misread you and that you hated me along with our sister and…”

“… _hate_ you? I?” He was the biggest idiot in history. He was so stupid he couldn’t even call himself a goldfish. That would have been highly unfair to every actual goldfish. Sherlock had loved him? For years? And he had missed it. It was hard, very hard not to smash his head onto the table.

“I know you don't.” And now Sherlock smiled and it made him look even more gorgeous in the soft light of the candle. “John saw it. In you and in me. That's why we are here. I'd have never dared doing this. He saw me with all these other men he thought could be potential partners for me. I hardly noticed them. There has never been anyone else I was interested in.”

And finally Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hand, and how soft and warm his skin was. “Can you forgive me? For being the stupidest, blindest, slowest… What I want to say is: do you… want to be with me?”

And this time Sherlock actually beamed at him and it made him look so beautiful that Mycroft's heart stopped for a long moment. “Yes, Mycroft. I want to be with you.”

And they both bent over the table and for a brief, magic moment, their lips met for their first kiss, and then Sherlock blew out the candle and guided him to the couch by the hand, and they sank on it, their mouths searching for each other again, and in the darkness of Sherlock's and John's living room, they kissed and kissed, lying in each other's arms, and all that had happened between them, all the hurt and the insults, the pain and the years of misunderstandings and distance crumbled into nothingness, and the layers of ice around Mycroft's heart melted and were replaced with love and warmth and hope.

*****

John listened into the silence of the flat before he entered. The living room was dark, the table cleared. And Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, and there was no sign of Mycroft.

But as soon as John had made light and saw the expression on his friend’s handsome face, he knew his plan had worked. Well, the kiss-swollen lips told their own story anyway.

“Good evening.” John crossed the room and sat down in his own chair.

“Likewise. Had a good time with your girlfriend?”

John smirked. “Very. You? With your new boyfriend?”

“I can’t believe you did this. You and Mrs Hudson.”

John was very glad to hear that Sherlock’s voice didn't sound appalled. In fact he sound rather impressed. “Ah, well. I just told her I think you should reconcile with your brother. And then she screeched, thank God a little less loudly than when she faked seeing the mouse, that it had to be him. I talked to her before Mycroft showed up. See if she has a clue who it could be you are obviously thinking about non-stop. She didn’t but then… It seemed to be the only logical explanation.”

Sherlock shook his head in awe. “Not many people would find it logical at all.”

“Nah, probably not. But it’s you. And him. Like two very weird pieces of a puzzle that won’t fit anywhere else.”

“Very poetically put. And rather accurate in an insulting way. Thank you. You are crazy and you drove me mad with dragging me to all these places but then… you did the right thing.”

“How was it?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Want to hear details? I have none. Not yet. We kissed. He’s loved me for ages, like I loved him.”

“Holmeses. The stupidest geniuses on earth.”

“Very true. He’s great. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

“Of course you will.”

“Don’t be so smug,” smirked Sherlock.

John laughed. “I have every right to be.”

“Yes you do.”

John got up. “I may have bought some champagne for this occasion.”

“So sure it would work out? What if he hadn’t had time? Or hadn’t wanted to come over?”

“Please. Mycroft? Refusing an invitation coming from you? Not in a million years. So – no fumbling in the dark? Just kissing?” John opened the bottle and filled two glasses. They were not matching but who cared?

Sherlock blushed. “We will… take it slow. Neither of us… Well, he did it but it was literally decades ago.”

“How cute. A virgin and an almost-again virgin.” John grinned and winked to show he meant no offence.

Sherlock had taken none. “You know we are a bit slow in such matters. And we have time.”

“Sure you do.”

They clinked glasses and drank, and the champagne was really good stuff.

“John… I’ll be eternally grateful for this. But please keep it to yourself. I will talk to Mrs Hudson, too...”

“Ah, we know that. Nobody will be told. Not Lestrade, not Sue, not anyone. Your secret is safe with us.” Sherlock blinked rapidly, and John’s heart swelled with affection. “It’s all good. It’s all fine. Are we, too?”

Sherlock smiled and now his eyes were wet. “Yes, John. We are.”

And if they had been more openly affectionate men, they would have embraced now. As things were, John thought he should leave the physical displays of emotion to the Holmes brothers. They would get there. He and Sherlock were really good again. He and Sue were doing fine, too. All in all, John thought they all could consider themselves very happy.

“If you need any advice when it comes to, you know, sex, I’m here.”

“Shut up, John. Nosy menace.” Sherlock grinned and John laughed and raised his glass.

The Baker Street Boys and the Holmes Boys. All linked in their very peculiar ways. Life was good.


End file.
